


赤花金葉

by kwunkwun



Category: EXILE (JPOP), Sandaime J Soul Brothers
Genre: 1920s Taisho au, M/M, Political Intrigue, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and general sin, as well as sm, may contain dub con in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-09-26 11:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9895004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kwunkwun/pseuds/kwunkwun
Summary: In 1921 Tokyo, political dissent and economical turmoil boils beneath the glamorous modernism of new arts and cafe societies. Senior executive managing director to Yasuda Financial Group, Tosaka Hiroomi, cynically enjoys the paradox of this age -he has an unwavering belief in his ability to sustain his livelihood regardless of social instability. A chance meeting brings him face to face with a man utterly opposite to him in personality, ideals, and possibly everything in between. Curiosity eventually leads to an obsessive need to understand, and during a lavish dinner party, Hiroomi makes his move.Pairings: Omiryu main, Naonao and Yamagun sideWarning: rating will likely be raised in later chapters for mature themes such as violence and sex.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Happy mv and from chats with Luvsics and Sayuki. However, the fujoshi need to just write shameless smut suddenly got turned into an ambitious race towards an entire multi-chapter story complete with all the social-economic/political shit in the background. I have never done so much research in the space of two days for even my university essays probably. Having said this, I'm no history major so I probably got a shit ton of stuff wrong. The chapters will probably all be fairly short because I'm a lazy tired cookie.

December 14, 1921

 

The avenue facing Manseibashi Station was chaotic in the late-afternoon rush back to the office. Honks sounded as merchants and pedestrians alike dodged trams, and despite the winter cold, everyone could smell the perpetual stink of factory smoke in the air.

A pair of dark umbrellas shielded two men from the falling snow as they elegantly battled their way across the street. Senior executive managing director to Yasuda Financial Group, Tosaka Hiroomi, and his aid Kobayashi Naoki. Their working schedules consist regularly of casual meetings with investors and business owners over extravagant meals. But this time it was an on-site inspection of Horikoshi Corp, a glass manufacturer established some five months ago. Safe to say, Hiroomi did not wear his best shoes for the occasion.

Shaking hands with the flat-headed Horikoshi, Hiroomi put on a guarded smile. He anticipated, rightly, that their small talk would inevitably begin with the Four-power treaty that Japan had signed just the day before.

“Mutual consultation over territorial disputes is little more than two men fighting over the same whore,” Hiroomi offered, because Horikoshi was known for a crude sense of humour. The two men shared a laugh in the safety of Horikoshi’s lavish office. Naoki, seated at a padded mahogany chair, only sipped at his tea in stoic reticence.

Documents changed hands, along with a gift of twin statuettes modelled in glass. And then Horikoshi walked him through the factory. It was repressively hot, damp as a sauna, and his brow was beaded with sweat within ten minutes of the tour. Shrugging off his suit jacket, he only invested half of his attention to surveying the dingy workshops. They were stuffed with unfortunate souls who each had bloodshot eyes, sooty fingertips, and clothes rattier than his backyard doormat. Hiroomi made eye contact with no one.

Status quo was primarily a matter of birthright, and only secondarily a matter of hard work, he told himself.

Tokyo was full of paradoxes. Self-proclaimed young Marxists and smartly dressed _mogas_ were driven by opposing ideals, but still shared the same European café and probably the same bed after too much alcohol. The Diet was a political goulash of new parties but everyone knew how far the militaristic identity extended.

The second floor is devoted to research, so there was a little more breathing space. Two men were bent over a table in the sunlit corner of the room. One of them was not much older than he. His fine dress distinguished him from the other workers milling about. Nonetheless, he had rolled up his sleeves to physically examine the grimy samples that were laid over the workbench. Engrossed in discussion with his peer, the man paid no attention to himself or Horikoshi. He had a strange little face –slightly pointy ears, expressive eyebrows, and a heart-shaped mouth not quite suited to the moustache sitting on top.

“I completely forgot he was here!” Horikoshi barked with obvious amusement. “Tosaka-kun, this is Imaichi Ryuji-kun.”

“Ah, excuse me,” the man named Imaichi murmured this to the worker beside him before raising his head to meet Hiroomi’s curious eyes.

“Apologies for not introducing myself earlier. Imaichi Ryuji, from Sabaeframe.” His face lit up in a surprisingly warm smile as he bowed in greeting.

“Tosaka Hiroomi, from Yasuda Financial Group,” he returned a bow and a guarded smile.

“I trust that the research is going well?” Horikoshi seemed keen to get the conversation going.

Imaichi’s gold wire spectacles winked in the sunlight as he turned to regard Horikoshi with a look of unbridled excitement.

“The annealing process here is extremely thorough,” he responded. “If brittleness can be reduced before the blanks are shipped off, then we will be able to drastically reduce losses during the shaping and polishing process.”

“Of course. We had a recent upgrade on all of our lehr’s to ensure pin-point accuracy of temperature control .” Horikoshi turned to Hiroomi and gave him a hearty pat on the back. “Imaichi-kun is all the way here from Fukui. I think it was Asozu-mura. Apparently the farms there get so snowed in during winter that they almost disappear. Isn’t that something else?”

Hiroomi didn’t fail to pick up the faintly condescending, nasally tone to Horikoshi’s voice, but Imaichi’s unfaltering, amicable expression told Hiroomi that he had missed Horikoshi’s jab entirely.

“Were you born in Fukui?” he asked Imaichi.

“I was born in Kyoto, actually. But I went to Fukui for a trip and came across Masunaga-san’s workshop and that’s where it all began.” Imaichi seemed to have forgotten that his hands were soiled; Hiroomi watched with a little anxiety as Imaichi began to thoughtfully rub at his chin.

“Forgive my ignorance, but I recall that Sabaeframe is an eyeglasses company?”

Imaichi nodded. His fingers had left a faint black smudge at the side of his mouth.

“Masunaga-san founded Sabaeframe with the livelihood of the entire Shono village in mind. So that the farmers could have an additional source of income during the farming off-season. He sent me off to see what kind of technologies and techniques we can learn from the top glass and metal manufacturing companies in Osaka and Tokyo.”

A heart-warming backstory. Hiroomi wondered why a man like Horikoshi would agree to host Imaichi, who was clearly too honest and straightforward to survive as a businessman. Imaichi held his gaze as he talked animatedly. Hiroomi found the eye contact impolite, moreover, unnerving. Perhaps it was because of his unusually large and dark irises, and how his eyes only seemed to get bigger when he raised his brows for emphasis.

“Then I hope you can spare some time to see the sites. Where are you staying?”

“I definitely will. I’m staying at the Tokyo station hotel.”

_And not the Imperial?_

“Thrifty. Well then, you can save your money to spend on better things can’t you?” Horikoshi broke in merrily. He really could be an arsehole when he wanted to be.

“Yes! There is a lot of souvenir to be bought,” Imaichi replied with an unsuspecting laugh. “Oh, don’t let me interrupt you, please. It is nice to meet you, Tosaka-san. I hope to see you around the city.”

The grin was still lingering on Imaichi’s face as he turned to nod a farewell, and Hiroomi found the brightness of his features utterly startling.

“Likewise. Until next time, then.”

_A strange little man._


	2. Chapter 2

On a gently sloping hilltop stood the Tosaka residence, a long, two-storey construction of rigid symmetrical design. The structure was made of reinforced concrete, but the choice of colour –a warm shade of pale beige –concealed the brutality of this material completely. Moreover, there were those bold touches of softly textured Oyaishi stone that harmoniously fitted with the concrete in the form of columns and parapets. A year and seven months ago Hiroomi had located a prime section of land to the West of Azabu, and through the recommendation of a trusted friend, the American architect Anton Raymonde had been commissioned for the project. True to his style, Hiroomi wanted the place to stand out from the rest of the buildings in the vicinity, which were mostly stuck to the romantic elegance of Meiji style architecture. It was just as well that Raymonde had a keen interest in the pure, geometric forms favoured by The Vienna Secession.

Through the tall glass windows of the studies was a splendid view of the Arisugawa-no-miya memorial park. The winter chill added a serene charm to the canopy of dense woods. This was the backdrop to his morning routine of reading and sorting through his correspondences. Being Sunday, he could afford to take even longer than usual with his mail.

His servant announced the arrival of an expected guest, and Hiroomi rose from his seat to receive him. Yamashita Kenjiro wore a casual kimono and had a long package tucked under his arm. He passed this to Hiroomi, who gauged from the weight that it was a bottle of alcohol.

“Thanks. What brand is it this time?” Hiroomi pulled the box out of its paper bag and inspected the label.

“Ajibana brewery. We signed an exclusive dealership just last Friday. Keep supply limited, spread raving product reviews by word of mouth, and people will come flocking in to empty their wallets,” Yamashita chortled. “Well. Not to say that their whiskey isn’t goddamn amazing, or I wouldn’t have pushed the contract.”

Yamashita was a distributor for Mitsukoshi department store. Hiroomi had him to thank for a good two thirds of the beverages that decorated his liquor cabinet.

The servant returned to serve tea and wagashi.

“Pity it’s a bit too early in the day for a drink,” Hiroomi mused.

“Well you’ll have to give me your product review the next time that we meet,” Yamashita said. He leaned forward secretively as he added, “by the way, did you hear about what happened at the west end of Henneson Bridge the other day?”

“No, what happened?”

“Someone representing the Black dragon society was handing out food supplies with leaflets attached. They’re targeting factory workers now. You’d better keep a look out too, on behalf of all your clients.”

“People flock to where there’s free food. It’s natural. I doubt my saying anything is going to change their minds about factory working conditions. Especially not Horikoshi.”

“Ha. Even if there were strikes and rice riots all around, that man would be the last to go down.”

“Exactly. Speaking of which… I visited his factory the other day and came across the strangest man. I don’t know whether to call him straightforward or outright dense. He wouldn’t know that you hated him unless you said it to his face.”

Yamashita raised both eyebrows and then he laughed, “Tosaka Hiroomi’s paying attention to other people? This is news!”

“Paying attention to people is a big part of my job,” he reminded Yamashita, tossing him a mock-hostile look over the rim of his cup.

“So what was this strange fellow doing at Horikoshi’s?”

“Research into glass manufacturing, apparently. He does eye glasses. Sabaeframes, I think it was.”

“Sabaeframes? What did he look like?”

“Cropped hair, big dark eyes, pointy ears, small head. Moustache. Why?”

“Imaichi Ryuji, right?”

Intrigued, Hiroomi unconsciously leaned forward in his chair.

“You know him?”

“Yeah, from back when I lived in Kyoto.”

“I can’t imagine you two being friends.”

“Me neither, to be honest.”

Yamashita fell quiet at that point, and his expression was mysteriously strained. Old acquaintances from Kyoto. But Yamashita had no idea Imaichi was coming here. He was curious but it was none of his business, so he only watched Yamashita slice at what was left of his teacake for a while.

“I’m waiting for you to change the subject, you know,” Yamashita finally said.

Hiroomi chuckled. They knew each other well enough for shit like this. It was his way of saying ‘thanks for worrying but I can deal with it by myself.’

But when Yamashita left that afternoon he still paused a good five seconds at the front door before asking him whether he knew where Imaichi was staying.

 

* * *

 

Tokyo station hotel was bustling in the holiday season. While passing through the corridors Yamashita almost got run over by a bellboy. He had managed to charm his way to getting Ryuji’s room number at the concierge. All through the elevator ride up to the fifth floor his brain had been asking him, ‘what the hell are you doing?’

He knocked on Ryuji’s door and experienced so many levels of anxious as he waited for it to open. For all he knew Ryuji could be out. But soon enough he heard a set of footsteps, and then the click of the lock.

The shock in Ryuji’s eyes was poorly disguised. He could tell from the bed hair and the hastily tied kimono that he had spent much of the morning inside.

“Hey. It’s been a long time.” Yamashita offered a weak smile. In his haste to get here he had prepared nothing in the way of gifts, and now he didn’t quite know what to do with his empty hands.

“Yes. It has.” Ryuji looked at him carefully for a few seconds before stepping aside to let him in. Yamashita took a seat by the window and watched Ryuji head to the cabinet to grab two glasses. He poured straight tonics for them both, even though it was already 5pm and an excellent time for a drink.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to Tokyo?” Yamashita took his glass and observed Ryuji under the smoky late afternoon light. He looked thinner than he remembered –but then, it had been five years and his puppy fat had probably all gone by now.

Instead of answering Ryuji asked in return, “how did you know I was here?”

“Hiroomi told me. Tosaka Hiroomi?” Yamashita sipped his drink. “Why didn’t you tell me, Ryuji? Thought we were friends?”

“I don’t know. Are we?”

Yamashita laughed, as if he was convinced that Ryuji was just joking. “You’ll be happy to know that I got divorced. Just last year.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need to be. I got what I deserved, didn’t I?”

“Don’t play the sympathy card. I’m not going to forgive you.”

Ryuji’s brows were all scrunched together, his lower lip drawn up in his displeasure. He still didn’t believe that Ryuji was capable of real anger, purely because he looked utterly adorable when he was mad.

“Well, I’m still going to try. Five years is a long time to hold a grudge, Ryu-chan.”

He looked at Ryuji standing at the foot of the bed with his back half turned. The pale curve of his neck above the loose collar of his robe. He naturally thought about whether Ryuji has had any others since him.

Men were all like this. Jealous. Greedy. Love didn’t even need to be in the equation.

“Have you been looking after yourself, Ryu-chan?”

“I’m fine, Ken.”

“Staying all cooped up in a hotel room on a Sunday doesn’t look all that fine to me.”

Ryuji tossed him a scathing look over his shoulder. “It’s not like I have better things to do. I have no friends here.”

“That attitude will get you sick. Live a little.” He rose from his chair and set down his glass on the writing desk.

“I like the way I live now.” Ryuji was facing him, eyes defiant even as he took a step back.

“It’s the age of change and experimentation. It’ll catch up with you sooner or later.”

He touched Ryuji’s cheek. Ryuji flinched a little, either from the suddenness of the caress, or from the chill that the glass had left on his palm.

“Did you get prettier while I was gone?”

The cheek under his hand flushed. Ryuji looked like he was going to bite, and he entirely looked forward to it. Ryuji used to fall for this sort of play every damn time, didn’t he?

“I’m not going to sleep with you, Ken.”

Laughing quietly, Yamashita traced the open V of Ryuji’s collar with his fingertips, feeling the jut of his clavicle and breastbone under the linen. He remembered that spot on his ribcage, right under his armpit, how he’d raise goosebumps there with his hands and his mouth. He remembered how Ryuji would shiver and look away when he undressed him.

“I’m not going to sleep with you, Ken,” Ryuji said again, quieter this time. Yamashita heard no conviction in it, like he’d stop protesting once he spun him around and shoved his face into the mattress.

“I’m sick of playing the bad guy, Ryuji. What do you want me to be, huh? The old friend who takes you sightseeing on Nihonbashi?”

“And is that not okay?” Ryuji’s voice went even softer.

_Spin him around. Press his face into the mattress._

“I know what you want, Ken. You want us to meet up just to fuck.”

_Touch that spot on his ribcage. Undress him and see him shiver._

“Am I not allowed to miss just spending time with you, Ken?”

Yamashita took a half step forwards and pulled Ryuji in by the back of the nape. Their mouths met clumsily. A familiar scent, a familiar warmth that made the pit of his belly tingle with slow desire.

_I don’t know whether to call him straightforward or outright dense._

When he left the hotel later, running his tongue over the cut inside his mouth, he thought about how fucking right Hiroomi was.


	3. Chapter 3

Spring of 1920 remained a nightmare and a slow-healing wound for Yasuda Financial Group. Following the collapse of the securities and commodities market on Black Monday, the two major firms Masuda and Fujimoto Bill Brokers failed, triggering bank runs in 57 head offices and 102 branch offices from Osaka right through to Tokyo. Amongst the chaos, 21 banks were forced to temporarily suspend operation, causing permanent damage to pecuniary resources and creditworthiness.

Yasuda Financial Group suffered a twelve percent plummet in its share prices in those first two months. Hiroomi remembered seeing throes of people lining the streets and crushing themselves, like sardines in a can, against the turquoise gates to Sumitomo banking corp. He remembered how he had watched them from the balcony of his office with a mug of stone-cold coffee in hand, feeling the slow-growing terror churning in the pit of his stomach.

These reminiscences were triggered by the gang of journalists and photographers invited to attend the monthly conference held between the ten banks amalgamated by Yasuda Group.

Seated at his right, Kobayashi Naoki was expertly directing discussion. His manner of speech was authoritative yet humble, and he relayed facts with a succinct clarity that discouraged further inquiry by ambitious reporters.

When questioned directly on the issue of giving investors security, Hiroomi responded, "Admittedly, growth has been slow across the broad. As we know, over twenty percent of our revenue is coming from steel production. It is a lucrative market but trends can change in the blink of an eye. Our aim is to diversify so that we don't end up with all our eggs in one basket. We want to encourage domestic competition and reward businesses that are implementing overall restructuring and consolidation to improve efficiency…”

Despite the winter chill, the flash of cameras had brought up a light sweat under his collar. The mantle clock read a little after five, and judging from the glassy-eyed look from some of his peers, it was clear that he wasn’t the only one aching for fresh air and a drink or two.

When he closed off the meeting, a sudden gust rattled the windows. He rose from his chair and peered out briefly at the grey slush that covered the streets. The representatives and reporters slowly filtered out of the conference room, and the rising hubbub of conversation helped to put him at ease. Hiroomi looked across the sea of heads, in search of Kobayashi, and spotted him trapped at the mantelpiece by one of the journalists; a short, narrow-shouldered man with slightly protruding ears. As always, it was difficult to read Kobayashi’s expression, but he appeared to be absorbed in the conversation. His quiet and measured responses were entirely at odds with the man’s jovial and animated interjections.

Hiroomi endured some more smalltalk and photographs before heading for the frigid freedom outside. His wool coat felt heavy and stiff on his shoulders, and the wet snow was slowly soaking through the fine leather of his oxfords. He passed over a bridge off the main street, peering under the arch of his umbrella at the towering Mitsukoshi department store in the distance. A bar, or his home? He had yet to sample the bottle from Ken.

"Ah, Tosaka san?"

Hiroomi turned to see someone standing at the foot of the bridge. The name Imaichi returned to him easily. He looked small in a plaid chesterfield coat and red muffler, and wasn't carrying an umbrella. Imaichi took half a step forward and then paused, as if mentally debating on whether to make an approach or wait for him to come to the other side. As amusing as it was to watch, Hiroomi decided to save him the trouble.

"Good afternoon, Imaichi san." He greeted him in return, with a curt nod of the head. It was not on his agenda to have any prolonged conversations with the man, but Ken's reaction from the other day bothered him, and it was common courtesy to offer shelter to a man without hat nor umbrella.

Imaichi stepped in closer, his expression sheepish. "Sorry to impose. I seemed to have left mine on the train."

"It's no trouble. Where are you headed?" He glanced at Imaichi discreetly, seeing how the tips of his ears were flushed from exposure to the bitter weather.

"I was just planning to find a place for dinner. Well, and finding a new umbrella."

The informality and childishness of the joke surprised him, and so did the soft melodic laughter that followed.

Hiroomi offered, "Then perhaps you might like to dine with me?"

"Really? I would love that, thank you!"

Imaichi’s responding smile was warm and charming, and his lustrous black eyes reflected honest gratitude. This reaction left a brief and vaguely familiar tingly sensation in Hiroomi’s stomach, but he saw no reason to be flustered by another man. It was becoming clear to him, at least, that where Imaichi lacked in the intricacies of upper-society interaction, he made up for with a rare and pure charisma.

But could it be called charisma if he wasn’t aware of it himself?

As they walked past the luxurious window displays of Mitsukoshi, he once again questioned how Ken could have possibly made a close friend out of someone like Imaichi.

He led him into Café Lion, a place he frequented in the occasions where he preferred a quaint and quiet environment to eat alone. Ginza Palace was gaining popularity with the urban masses as of late, not only due to the affordable menu and glamorous interior, but also due to the pretty waitresses who were always ready to join diners at the table (or even at their laps). He had gone there with Ken many times, but it didn’t seem like Imaichi would appreciate this Tokyo speciality.

The interior design at Café Lion was Parisian, much like many of the cafes here. It was popular amongst young artists as an impromptu gallery, and the paintings hung on the walls would change from week to week. This time the works were small, richly coloured oil paintings of mysterious allegorical scenes. He caught Imaichi admiring one as they were seated at a partitioned table.

“Sisyphus,” Hiroomi said.

“Oh?” Imaichi turned towards him, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

“That figure in the top left corner of the painting is Sisyphus, the King of Ephyra, punished for his deceit by being made to push a boulder up a hill only to watch it fall for all eternity.”

“What a strange punishment.”

“Greek mythology is full of eccentricities.”

“You enjoy art?”

“Yes, but unfortunately I have no creative ability. Do you paint?”

Hiroomi opened up his menu as he said this.

“If I was told to draw a lion it would look no different to a kitten. But I have to do technical drawings for work. I suppose it is another sort of thing.”

Imaichi also began to study his menu in earnest. He was so invested that a crease was beginning to form between his brows.

He ordered pan-fried fish in truffle sauce with a side of braised asparagus, while Imaichi, after a long period of deliberation, chose seafood linguine at Hiroomi’s recommendation. He also ordered white wine for them both.

Conversation with Imaichi was surprisingly easy and enjoyable. He found out that his family ran a lumber business back in Kyoto, and that his elder brother was set to take over in the following spring. Imaichi had received a postgraduate degree in engineering from the prestigious Doshisha University. He worked for the family business for about two years until he came across Masunaga’s project in Fukui and decided to join Sabaeframes.

"You and Yamashita are old friends?" Hiroomi brought this up as casually as he could.

Imaichi had his fork poised halfway towards his mouth, but upon hearing the question he lowered it and tentatively reached for his wine instead. His long, slim fingers played nervously on the glass, and his gaze became slightly evasive.

"I knew Ken since junior high. We were in the same homeroom. I didn't know I would run into him here." Imaichi chuckled softly. "And how about you?"

"When I met him three years ago he was still an aspiring entrepreneur," Hiroomi responded. "And now Mitsukoshi has tied him down. Still, he manages to stir things up in other ways."

"He has always been something of a troublemaker." Imaichi's voice grew quiet, perhaps in reverie, but it was easy to pick up the hint of sadness there.

"I hope it wasn't presumptuous of me to disclose your whereabouts to Yamashita."

Imaichi's response to this would either confirm or disprove his suspicion that he has had a falling-out with Ken in the past. He wouldn't call himself nosy, but he had a talent for picking people apart without them noticing. And everything about Imaichi fascinated him: his mannerisms, his background, his poorly disguised accent, the way he looked and the way he spoke.

"No, not at all. In fact I was glad to see that he was doing well. But how did you... Ah, no. Never mind."

Bizarrely, Imaichi's face took on a faint shade of red. He noticed the moles that sat delicately across his left cheekbone like ink dots left by a fine brush. The half-empty wineglass in his hand was all but forgotten. In the background, the gramophone switched to a new track, and conversation continued to merge and overlap like foamy waves crawling over the shoreline.

Imaichi was silent for quite some time. Their gazes converged on the anguished face of Sisyphus, fated to push a boulder up the hill for all eternity.

When he saw Imaichi off at Tokyo station hotel that night, he once again felt that tingling sensation in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter involved so much research... I apologize to any finance savvy people reading this, if there were mistakes... I was totally bluffing haha


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feels like it's been ages since I updated, but I don't think it has been, has it?? I don't know if I'll end up having Yamagun in this, and why is it suddenly so romantic?? Is it because I put Nat King Cole on the whole time while writing plus there was a fluffy dog wedged under my arm?

The cast iron chairs in the garden were dusted with snow. They looked like charred skeletons in the pure white landscape. Naoki sat at the pavilion with a pot of tea and a pound cake that he had barely put a dent in. Across the table, Kataoka Naoto was observing him keenly and very openly. Naoki was not quite sure what to make of this -he supposed that it was simply a journalist’s habit.

This was their first meeting since the conference. Kataoka was a charming and engaging man, a year older than he, and Naoki was confounded when Kataoka had extended him an invitation to afternoon tea.

“You must be very busy with the preparations for the upcoming charity event,” Kataoka mused. He wore a moss green, 3-piece suit today, with a patterned shirt and a silk grey tie. Many heads had turned in curiosity and appreciation when Kataoka had strode into the café. Standing beside him, Naoki would have found the gazes of his admirers discomforting if it weren’t for the fact that he was accustomed to the same sort of thing happening when he was accompanying Tosaka-san.

“I only oversee the preparations and make sure everything is on schedule,” Naoki responded. “But everything is more or less in order.”

“So, no more heavy lifting and carving ice sculptures for you, Kobayashi-san?” Kataoka chuckled.

“I’m afraid not,” he responded with shy smile. “Carving is not exactly my area of expertise.”

“But you have the air of someone who is well practiced in some sort art.”

“I have been practicing Judo since I was child, although nowadays I cannot train as often as I could like.”

Kataoka let out a low whistle. “No wonder why you have excellent posture and such an expressive stature.”

“Your compliments are far too generous.” Naoki bowed his head, keeping his voice as level as he could manage. Somehow, he had the sense that Kataoka’s words did not come from mere politeness. “And what of your interests, Kataoka-san?”

“Ah, I’m glad you asked! I collect ukiyo-e from wherever I happen to go for new stories. Though I can’t say that my collection is worth all that much.”

“Well, there is little joy in collecting merely for the sake of monetary value. Do you favour landscapes or portraits?”

“I seem to be drawn more to portraiture. I appreciate an artist’s ability to convey character quirks through subtle uses of costume or expression.”

Naoki smiled again. “You seem to very much enjoy observing people in a range of formats.”

“Yes, although it makes some people uncomfortable. And now that I have been staring too much, you have hardly touched your cake.”

The playful lilt to Kataoka’s voice was very deliberate, and Naoki found himself blushing slightly.

“It does not make me uncomfortable,” he reassured him in a murmur, before picking up the ornate silver fork.

Behind the rim of his tea cup, Kataoka’s smile seemed only to grow.

 

* * *

 

 

The taxi slowed, pulling up to the gate in front of Meilina Mansion. Ryuji thanked the valet as he carefully climbed out of the vehicle. The gates had been left open to receive the sheer number of guests, and the façade of the neo-classical building ahead seemed to glitter with light and colour. The water fountain in front of the main entrance had been decorated with extravagant bouquets of anemones, scabiosa, patience roses and calla lillies.

Ryuji caught his own reflection on the water surface, and for a second he couldn’t recognise the slicked back hair and finely tailored suit in faintly embossed deep blue. There were very few people whom he knew. He was aware that his smile was nervous while exchanging greetings with the other guests. He had never seen women in such revealing dresses, or with such bold hairstyles. Despite of his relative disinterest in the opposite sex, it flustered him to be on the receiving end of those secretive crimson smiles. Of course, this was Tokyo.

His eyes travelled along the figures scattered across the round staircase, and he found Ken leaning against the balustrade with champagne in hand, standing close enough to a woman dressed in emerald for their bodies to touch. He felt nothing, but it had taken him a very long time to get to this point.

“A drink, sir?”

Ryuji turned to the waiter beside him and accepted a glass with a soft thank you. This was a classic case of wanting to go home after barely five minutes into the party. He did not enjoy these gatherings, least of all in a mansion full of fashionable and well-off strangers, but it would have been impolite to turn down Tosaka’s invitation after his hospitality. They had already been to dinner together twice and he found Tosaka’s company enjoyable and relaxing, which surprised him given the clear difference in their backgrounds. Because Tosaka was the host tonight, he suspected that he would see very little of him.

Ryuji felt someone catch him by the elbow and saw that it was Horikoshi’s production manager’s wife. Her hair was trimmed to a sleek bob, covered with a headband made of a mesh of tiny rhinestones.

“Imaichi-san, I’m glad to see that you’re here,” she said. Her voice was deep and velvety; not an unpleasant contrast to her delicate features and girlish mouth. “You look confused? Don’t tell me you have already forgotten me!”

“Of course not, Suzuki-san. I remember you very well,” he answered her with a deep bow of his head.

“Good! Now if you would please keep me company, because I have lost my stupid husband, and I would look _so_ much better with a dazzling young man on my arm.”

“You are dazzling enough by yourself, Suzuki-san, but of course I will.”

He was the one grateful for her company. They spent half an hour dancing until she almost lost a shoe, and, carrying his jacket in one arm and a giddy partner on the other, they moved on to a quieter lounge room where party-goers and a few couples half-reclined on overstuffed armchairs and fed each hors d'oeuvres between wine and small talk.

A grand piano stood in one corner of the room, and Suzuki smiled widely as she pulled him along with her towards the instrument. Ryuji understood her intentions well before she spoke, and he felt himself blush immediately. Suzuki pulled back the bench and took a seat.

“Come. I heard you could play and sing,” she urged, her eyes sparkling in mischief. Her fingers were already playing tinkling flourishes over the keys.

“I wouldn’t want to disturb anyone, and besides…”

“Besides nothing, they can leave if they don’t like it. You should know this one?”

“Yes, but –

“Good! Then sing. Four bars and then your entry.”

He cleared his throat and focussed on the image of her hands skilfully playing a ninth, an augmented seventh, and then a fairy-tale sprinkling of sextuplets. His quiet singing attracted a brief gaze or two from the audience, but their looks were curious, if not kind. Soon he felt himself settling into the beat and fully projecting his voice, and Suzuki was giggling, looking up at him with a pure joy that he knew his eyes equally reflected.

No doubt, music was a magic that could make people feel like they had been friends since the beginning of time.

Suzuki’s repertoire was bigger than his so she easily knew all the songs he did -they went from one song to the next, even taking requests from a few listeners, and before long they had the entire room captivated. This was the most at home he had felt in Tokyo for the two and half weeks he had spent here.

“ _And now the purple dusk of twilight time_

_Steals across the meadows of my heart_

_High up in the sky the little stars climb_

_Reminding me that we’re apart_

_“You wander down the lane and far away_

_Leaving me a song that would not die_

_Love is now the stardust of yesterday_

_The music of the years gone by”_

He looked across the crowd and saw Tosaka at the door, and he let the delight of finally seeing a familiar face show on his features. At the same time, there was a sudden fluctuation in his chest, a sense of shyness and vulnerability that he had been caught mid-song.

He saw Tosaka's face change, but could not grasp the significance of it.


End file.
